


Call Me Sir, Agent

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Foot Kink, Gun Kink, High Heels Kink, I think it's called bukkake, M/M, Murder Kink, Oral Sex, PWP, Phone Sex, Rimming, coming on the face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil calls Clint while in the middle of a shoot-out-to-the-death and engages in phone sex with him, and gives him very special orders to be followed TO THE LETTER when he gets home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Sir, Agent

Clint's hands come down hard on the table as he pushes himself out of his seat. He has never been a fan of Captain America but right now he wants nothing more than shoot an arrow into the man's mouth, right down his throat. He thinks that just because he's a soldier that he knows what's best and what's worse is that almost everyone else seems to agree with him. Or at least doesn't bother to argue. Even Tony didn't say anything and Clint knows that he doesn't want to participate in these ridiculous group activities.  
  
The door to Clint and Phil's room opens to admit him and slides shut again when he collapses on his bed. He hasn't been in here for two days thanks to Steve and all his stupid group building exercises and it's really starting to grate on Clint's nerves. He doesn't need any of this. He knows how to work with people he doesn't know and while he may not always get along with them the Avenger's helped him through a hard time in his life and have earned his respect. What more could Steve want? He might not trust them as much as he trusts Natasha or Phil but that's a matter of time and hard work. Falling off a chair into the rest of the team's arms isn't going to cut it.  
  
What's worse is that no one will listen to him. They all treat him like he's below them somehow and it infuriates him. He knows he's not as impressive as they are but god dammit he could kill any of them right now if he chose to. They just don't see that. Especially not when he's alone. If Phil were there he would take his side and make the others see sense or at least treat him better. They respect Phil and Phil respects him. It's as simple as that.  
  
But he hasn't seen Phil in a few days. Not since Rogers called him away for a team outing in the city to check on the rebuilding. They haven't been away from each other for this long since Clint thought Phil was dead a few months back and it hurts to not have him here now.

 

There’s a buzzing, and Clint reaches for his cell phone, which he’d dumped on his night stand along with his wallet right before falling into bed. He lifts the screen to look at the number, but it isn’t his phone that’s buzzing.

 

Suddenly at attention he’s sitting up and darting for where he left his comm piece in the bathroom, at the side of the sink. He hasn’t had it with him all weekend, and a sinking feeling is already forming in his gut. The light is blinking a deep purple – seven missed calls. Panic grips him and he jams the piece into his ear, answering the call.

 

“Babe?” he addresses urgently, he knows it’s his husband, he’s the only one with a line to his comm piece.

 

“Hey, Clint.” Phil’s sounding distinctly distressed, out of breath on his side of the comm line, and there’s the sound of faint shooting in the background. “I was about to call Stark and ask if you’d dropped dead.”

 

"I don't think I'm the one we need to worry about." Clint replies. His voice is light but his heart is pounding. Why would there be shooting in the background? Phil is a handler, his handler, which means he doesn't go out into the field. He stays in the base they set up near the site and only goes out when something goes wrong.  
  
"Where are you, what's going on?" he asks quickly.

 

“I’m in Turkey.” Phil answers, and Clint’s brow furrows and Phil is so good at reading him without even needing to see him because he answers the other man’s unspoken question, “Yes, the country.”

 

"Why the fuck are you in Turkey?" Clint asks. Phil didn't say anything about an op and he always tells Clint when he's got work. Especially if it means he's going to be gone for more than a day. But Phil hadn't said anything and that alone is enough to send the archer into panic mode.

 

“Doc run.” Phil answers, and there’s more shooting. A few bangs come very close, followed by some shuffling and a loud click – Phil’s reloading his own gun. “It went messy really fast. Been in a standoff with two snipers and a group of hitmen for almost sixteen hours now. Smithee and Anderson are dead, it’s just me against four – ” BANG “Three hitmen and those snipers.”

 

"Are you alright?" It's a dumb question but Clint can't not ask. If Phil were badly hurt he would have said so by now. He would have started with that and then explained the circumstances, not the other way around. And it sounds like he's still fighting which is a good sign. If he was dying he would have found some place to camp out and wait for the best possible shot to take out his opponents before he died instead of continuing the firefight.  
  
Knowing that isn't calming Clint's nerves much though.  
  
"Do you want me to come out there? I can catch a jet and be there in an hour." he offers.

 

“No, you don’t need to come out here. I’ll be done and on my way back in less than the time it would take you to get here.” Phil gives a dark sort of chuckle. “Been at this stalemate for hours now, it only just came to a head and I figured I’d try calling you again. I’m alright, only got a little shot.”

 

"A little shot." Clint repeats quietly because he doesn't have enough breath left in his body to start shouting. Phil is shot. Phil is shot, probably more than once, and Clint can see him now, hurt and bleeding and pinned down without any back up. Dying. He's going to lose him again and he can't deal with that.  
  
"Where and how bad?" he asks breathlessly, trying to ignore the sound of his heart pounding out of his chest.

 

“One in my thigh.” Phil says. “Bullet’s still stuck in, but the bleeding isn’t so bad. Wrapped it up good and tight. Got clipped on the shoulder and side, but I don’t think either will even need stitches.” More shooting, another reload. “Two hitmen.”

 

"We'll let the guys over at medical decide whether or not you need stitches." Clint laughs to cover a sigh of relief. Shoulder and thigh. Dangerous but only in certain areas. Phil is going to be fine. "Why are you out in the field anyway? I thought they saved you for the important jobs. Like babysitting all of us."

 

“I was in the van making phone calls.” Phil says, there’s a scream of pain in the background as Phil misses a fatal shot on one of the men left. “It was overturned by a rudely placed bazooka rocket. They want the documents we were transporting, and they’re currently cuffed to Smithee, who’s lying in the middle of the firefight. I can’t go out to retrieve them, I’ll get sniped. And they can’t come out to get them, because I’ll shoot them. So we’re stuck like this until I pick them all off, or I die.”

 

"You're not going to die." Clint snaps. He knows it’s a possibility but he doesn't want to hear it. It feels like it should be bad luck to say something like that, especially as casually as Phil did. "Do you have any back up going in to get you out of there?"

 

“Brando is coming with an extraction team in twenty minutes.” Another scream in the distance, both men are downed but not dead. “This really isn’t my day, you know, this morning I wake up and I’m horny as hell,” he reloads again “And I can’t even wake you up with this morning wood that’s got my head spinning it’s throbbing so hard. To make matters worse – ”

 

_BANG_

 

“ _FUCK!_ ”

 

There’s a loud scuffle, the sound of pounding feet, another few loud shots, and Phil’s breath is heavy and thick in the receiver. 

 

"Keep talking to me Phil. What made matters worse?" Clint asks. He's desperate from Phil's voice, to hear him talking and complaining and very much alive. "I want you to tell me all about it. Tell me about how hard you were and how much you wanted me.”

 

Phil laughs breathily as he raises his arm and shoots the sniper that had circled around behind him to try to take a shot at him. He presses his other hand into the wound in his already hurt shoulder, switching to fire with his good, but non-dominant arm. He kills another of the hitmen as he tries to make a break for the documents.

 

“To make matters worse, I can’t even rub one out thinking about you because I’m so used to the real thing. Fucking into my palm trying to pretend it’s your mouth just doesn’t do it for me anymore.” Phil breathes heavily as he scans the treetops for the other sniper, keeping his other eye trained on where the last injured hitman has dragged himself behind the cover of a tree trunk, the through-and-through in his thigh from Phil’s magnum bleeding freely.

 

“And my hand doesn’t even come _close_ to your ass.” Phil’s voice has got that sharp, dark edge that cuts right into Clint’s belly.

 

Clint shivers. He knows it's wrong but he's starting to feel hot and his pants are getting tight. He shouldn't be aroused right now, not while Phil is hurt and his life is in danger but God. Phil's never been one for dirty talk and listening to him talk about jerking himself off; trying to think of Clint is too much of a turn on. And knowing he's doing it while on the clock, with his gun probably aimed at some man’s head, only makes it so much better.  
  
"What would you have done if I had been there with you?" Clint asks though his voice is thick with suppressed arousal. It's wrong, sick and wrong, but dammit he wants more.

 

“I would have pushed your face into the mattress, held you down and fucked you raw until you were screaming for mercy.” Phil growls sinister, the throb of pain in his shoulder keeping his arousal in check. The adrenaline pounding in his head keeps it clear and focused as he picks off the very last hitman when he pokes his head around the tree, a clean bullet to the face. “And then I would have turned you around and thrown you down so I could come on your face like I know you love.” His gun reloads again, and the cock of the barrel makes Clint’s cock twitch.

 

"Fuck." Clint sighs. He reaches down to press hard against the growing bulge in his pants, hoping the pressure will take some of the edge off his aching arousal. He can imagine Phil right now, sweaty and dirty, his suit a mess of grime and blood, gun in hand while whispering filthy things in his ear and its so fucking good, no matter how wrong it is.

 

“I want you to touch yourself, agent.” Phil orders, his voice heavy and forceful as he pops off a few more bullets in the last sniper’s direction, his bullets missing their targets.

 

"Yes sir." Clint replies, needing no more prompting. His hands are already on his jeans, tearing open the button and yanking down the zipper so he can take himself in hand. He loves it when Phil starts pulling rank and calls him 'agent.' The authority in his voice never fails to turn Barton on and he can feel its effects now, making him even harder as he strokes himself from base to tip.

 

“Explain, agent. Give me a full report,” Phil’s voice is still a heavy growl, a mixture of pain and frustration and anger,

 

Clint leans back on one hand, his eyes closing as he grips himself a little harder. "I'm so hard sir. Hearing you talk gets me so hot. I’m stroking myself nice and slow, like I do when you want to watch. It isn't enough. I want your hand sir. I want you to be here fucking me into oblivion."

 

“I’m going to fuck you, agent.” Phil is all hoarse whispers now, and he grips his shoulder a little tighter, forcing pain in the way of pleasure so he can keep his head in the fight. “I’m going to fuck you _hard_ , in all the ways that make you scream.”

 

Clint groans. He can imagine himself there, Phil fucking him hard against a wall. Suit a mess and his gun still in his hand. He knows most people would find that imagine more terrifying than arousing but damn if it doesn't make him so hot he's throbbing in his hand.  
  
"Yes sir. Thank you sir." he gasps. "Tell me more, please. How will you want me the first time?"

 

Phil’s about to answer when the sniper ventures a peek just long enough that he can shoot him in the eye. Slumping against the wall, he lets out a dark groan as he’s finally safe. He makes a break for the briefcase, his thigh burning with pain and he shoots the chain holding it to Smithee’s wrist and cups it close to his chest like someone’s going to take it from him. He takes cover inside the overturned, destroyed van just as he gets a page on his beeper (Clint makes fun of him for having one) letting him know the extraction team is just ten minutes out and he only has to hold out until then.

 

He can still hear Clint’s heavy breathing on the other side of the line, it’s more subdued now, because he’s slowed his hand. He’s still waiting for a response to his question.

 

“I’m going to be home in five hours.” He hisses, “You’re going to make that crab bake I love. And when I walk in that door, you’re going to be wearing nothing but high heels. Pick any pair from the closet, I’m not feeling picky. We’re going to sit down to a nice dinner and then when we’re done eating you’re going to climb up onto the table, spread your legs, and I’m going to eat you out until you come. Then you’re going to climb down into my lap and ride me until I come too. Do you understand your orders, agent?”

 

Clint doesn't answer immediately. He's breathing too heavy from the sudden onslaught of sexually charged imagery that threatens to send him over the edge. He slows his hand to a stop and reluctantly releases himself. He's so hot right now but he wants to save all that tension for when his husband gets home.  
  
"Yes sir I understand completely." he finally replies.

 

“The extraction team is picking me up in 8.5 minutes.” Phil looks out the destroyed window of the van, trying to spot an approaching unit in the distance. “I am going to drop the comm line now, agent. But first, repeat your orders back to me so I can be sure you know what to do.” 

 

"Yes sir. I'm going to make the crab bake you love. It'll be on the table, nice and hot, when you get home. I'll be waiting for you wearing nothing but a pair of heels. After dinner you're going to drive me crazy until I come, screaming your name. Then I'm going to ride you nice and hard until you come." Clint says, his voice low and husky. He can practically feel Phil inside him already and waiting five hours seems like torture.

 

“That’s a good agent.”

 

The line drops, and Clint takes several deep breaths and forces his pool cue of a cock back in his pants, trying to think of things to dull the arousal and bring down his erection. He’s going to cook, so that will give him something to focus on. But thinking about Phil holding him down on the table and sucking him off isn’t going to help.

 

Phil’s on the plane heading home within the hour, two medical ops sitting around him and letting him know how badly he’s injured. (Don’t strain your leg too much, and don’t do any heavy lifting.)

 

And the whole time he’s wondering which heels Clint’s going to pick. Phil has had a kink for men in high heels since his early teenhood, after one night of passion he barely remembered with a very, very skilled drag queen named Carlotta. He didn’t remember much about her, but he remembered how thick her cock had been, and how beautiful her ropey, muscular legs had looked in those heels.

 

After revealing this kink of his to Clint, they’d been married already six months, Clint was eager to try it out. Anything to please Phil. They started small, three-inch heels, plain black latex and shiny and perfect. They fit him wonderfully, his long, thin feet, kept hard and toned from years of circus training.

 

And from there they worked their way up and on. He has thirteen pairs of heels now, in varying colors and materials and heights. Phil’s always looking for new heels for Clint, and as of late he’s had his eye on a pair of electric blue silken six-inch heels with blue ribbon corset-lacing up the back of the heels themselves. The toes are rounded the sole is platformed, and they’re just about the most beautiful thing Phil has ever seen, but they’re almost three hundred dollars.

 

Maybe he’ll wear the purple ones, with the black lace up the sides. Those are Clint’s favorites. Or maybe he’ll wear the red latex ones, with the lacing up the calves. Or maybe he’ll even wear that one pair of black leather ballet boots Phil got him. He’s tingling with anticipation by the time he’s climbing off the plane and into the taxi they already have waiting to take him back to his penthouse apartment.

 

Clint places the two plates of crab on the table, making sure everything is perfect for Phil's return. He had trouble staying focused through his cooking, the image of Phil laying him out on the table and driving him wild with his mouth was very distracting. But he is confident that the food turned out well and that Phil will be pleased.  
  
Once the food is set he moves to the bedroom to examine himself in the mirror. He's almost completely naked, as Phil had ordered, and there's a light sheen of sweat on his chest and arms from working in the hot kitchen. His eyes travel downward, appreciatively taking in his own muscular form. He might not be as brawny as Thor or as ripped as Steve but he's got thick sinewy arms and more than adequate abs that came from years of training and hard work, not a scientist in a laboratory. He's proud of that fact and his overall form though he would prefer not to have as many scars marring his skin.  
  
His gaze continues downward, taking in his flat stomach, strong thighs and cock already half hard in anticipation of what's to come. Down his calves which look amazing thanks to the special surprise he got for Phil that he's now wearing on his slim feet.  
  
Over all he decides he looks good.

Better than good. Damn good.

He looks damn good and Phil is going to love it. He quickly fixes his short sandy hair before moving back into the dining room to wait.

 

Phil walks in the front door and is met with the strong aroma of the crab bake he requested Clint make. A smile crosses his lips as he shrugs his trench coat off over his suit, which is pretty much destroyed since the stand off, but he hasn’t had a chance to change it.

 

He heads down the front hall, anticipation mounting, and he’s about to call “smell’s great!” when he rounds the corner into the main kitchen area and his mouth goes totally dry.

 

Clint is leaning back against the small kitchen table, set for just the two of them, his ankles crossed modestly in front of him and his thick arms crossed over his chest. His cock is lying full and heavy over his thigh, and Phil can almost _hear_ it pulsing.

 

And on his feet are those very pumps Phil has been longing for. He doesn’t exactly have a foot fetish, but damn if he doesn’t want to drop to his knees and worship those feet. They’re electric blue in the dim light of the candles Clint has set up, they look warm and inviting. Phil can’t swallow, his mouth is too dry.

 

"Welcome home sir." Clint purrs. He pushes off the table and strides confidently over to Phil. He can feel those eyes tracking his every movement and barely manages to hold back a shiver. If he were giving the orders he would forget dinner and drag his husband off to their bedroom right now. But he isn't in charge and having to wait will only make it better in the long run so he says nothing. Instead he reaches up and slides Phil's jacket off his shoulders.  
  
"I'll take care of this. You make yourself comfortable." he says, taking the soiled jacket to the laundry. The stains probably won't come out and it will have to be gotten rid of but they don't need to talk about that now.

 

Phil sits in his usual chair, Clint’s chair is pulled back to accept him across the small expanse of the two-person table. He turns to watch Clint’s ass as he goes, appreciating the way the ribbon tails of the bows flutter behind him on those spectacular heels.

 

He can almost feel his heart synching up with every little click of those pumps as Clint goes, and Phil’s pants are already getting tight. Maybe waiting through dinner was a bad idea.

 

Clint returns soon and takes his usual seat across from his husband, a playful smile on his lips. He wants Phil so badly and can see that desire matched in the other man's eyes.  
  
"Shall we start?" he asked, lifting his fork while under the table his foot sneaks forward to rub against Phil's leg.

 

Phil lifts his own fork and tries to distract himself from the feeling of that silken pump sliding up under the material of his trousers, and rubbing against his calf. The hairs on his leg stand on end and his cock twitches curiously.

 

“Report on your team building exercise today, agent.” Phil says suddenly, and Clint’s foot drops, agitated. “What did you do?”

 

Clint frowns and pulls his foot back. "Trust building exercises sir. Trust falls and blindfolded obstacle courses. That sort of thing." He wants to say how much he hated it and is about one more stupid activity away from using the captain for target practice but he doesn't. That would ruin the mood and he doesn't want that. "Steve wants us to leave tomorrow for some survival training."

 

“Survival training.” Phil repeats and takes a bite of the crab. It’s perfect in every way, and he just barely manages to avoid an indulgent moan. “How early in the morning?”

 

He slips his foot out of his shoe and it’s his turn, and he slides his socked-toes up the inside of Clint’s calf, all the way to his knee. His expression is still serious as he chews and waits for Clint’s answer.

 

Clint's too distracted by Phil's foot to answer right away. He knows where this is going. That foot is going to keep traveling up until....he reaches for his glass of water and takes a long drink. Damn dinner and damn his own overly sensitive body.  
  
"06:00 sir." he says once the water is all down.

 

“That _is_ early.” Phil’s eyes are downcast and it seems like such an innocent statement, but then his foot is nudging beneath Clint’s half-hard length and he’s pushing it up until it’s pressed hard against the younger man’s belly. The rough wool texture of Phil’s sock is hard against the underside of Clint’s cock, and then Phil _wiggles his damn toes_ , clenching them around Clint’s cockhead. All the while he’s taking a sip of water and taking another bite of crab, giving his lover the most disarming of smiles “You cooked this perfectly.”

 

"Th-thank you sir." Clint gasps. The texture of Phil's sock against his sensitive flesh is stimulating his hyper active nerves and the pressure is just right. It's a chore not to squirm, not to try to get away, but if he does Phil will be angry so he calls on his training to control himself and remain still. "How long are you on medical leave?"

 

“Only the rest of the week.” Phil says, taking another bite of crab and grinding his heel into the base of Clint’s cock. He holds back a smile when Clint’s hips jerk forward into the pressure. “It’s not the bad, but I can’t do any heavy lifting. I’ll probably be completely healed within two weeks.”

 

He flexes his foot, the arch digging into the curve of Clint’s cock, and it’s so perfect, the look on his face. Phil’s destroying him, and he hasn’t even lifted a finger. Literally.

 

“You’re not eating.” He said with an arched brow as he took another bite of his own crab.

 

Clint grabs his fork and viciously spears a piece of crab. He's happy to note that his hand doesn't shake as he raises the food to his lips. That's years of training right there. Even when he's on the verge of climaxing his hands don't shake. When the blood returns to his brain he'll take a minute to be proud of that.  
  
"I should be...back from training...by Saturday..." he pants after finishing his very first bite of the delicious dinner he made. "Maybe we can... go do something on S-Sunday." He stutters at the end as Phil's foot slides up the shaft of his cock and his too dexterous to be normal toes circle the sensitive head.

 

Suddenly Phil’s foot is gone for just a moment, and he uses the toes of his other foot to pull off his sock underneath the table. Clint thinks he can breathe as Phil takes another bite of crab, but then Phil’s flesh is on him, soft and a little slick from sweat.

 

He slides his foot down so he can apply pressure to Clint’s balls with his toes, running the full length of his foot up the shaft again as he gives his lover an innocent sort of smile.

 

“There’s a paddle-boat vendor opening this weekend in Central Park.”  He says after taking another bite of crab. “I’ve always been curious about paddle-boating.”

 

Clint nods because he doesn't trust himself to speak. He's already so close to the edge and if Phil keeps pushing him...  
  
"Oh fuck..." he moans as Phil teases the sensitive ridge right under the head. He can't take it any more, he just can't "Sir please...I can't...."

 

“You can’t _what?_ Finish your sentence, agent.” Phil’s eyes are dark now and oh yes he knows exactly how close Clint is, he knows he’s going to come.

 

"I can't...control myself when you-oh fuck, fuck oh fuck-" Clint curses, his voice a loud moan. He's gone now, the pressure of Phil's foot and the way his toes and squeezing just enough around the head driving him over the edge. He comes, head thrown back and eyes closed. His hips buck just a little, small restrained thrusts, as ropes of come paint his husband's foot and ankle.

 

Phil waits until Clint rides his aftershocks into the sole of his foot, and then suddenly he’s up and he’s got Clint by the back of his neck before the archer can breathe. The dishes are shoved aside, and his face is pressed into the wood of the table’s surface.

 

“You had _orders_ , agent.” He said, his voice dark but even. “Do you _remember_ your orders?”

 

"Yes sir." Clint whimpers. He had orders. He disobeyed and now he's going to be punished for it.

 

“What were your orders, agent?” there’s one hand on the back of Clint’s neck and it’s holding him down hard, and the other has begun to explore the cleft of the archer’s ass.

 

"Make dinner." Check, he thinks like it was some kind of to do list.

"Be here in heels and nothing else when you arrived." Check again.

"Eat dinner." Check.

"Then lay down on the table and let you make me come." No check. Order was not followed. "I'm sorry sir. I'll accept whatever disciplinary measures you deem fit."

 

“You’re going to take your punishment like a good agent. Hands on the table,” Phil doesn’t even have to wait because Clint’s hands are on the table that fast. “And keep your head down. Legs straight, raise that ass, agent.”

 

He feels lecherous, the sight makes his cock jump. Clint’s legs are trembling on those beautiful heels, his white-knuckled hands are tight and his muscles are all taught and anticipating.

 

“Relax, agent.” Phil breathes, and he knows Clint can hear him loosening his tie, picking apart that top button. Once he sees Clint’s muscles loosen under that perfect skin, he raises the palm of his good arm and _SMACK_.

 

Clint jerks forward, gasping in surprise. His muscles tighten then relax as another strike lands on his unprotected bottom. This time he's ready for it and instead of gasping offers a small mewling moan of encouragement. He loves it when Phil gets rough and he knows Phil loves it too.

 

Phil’s almost reaching into his trousers to touch himself, but he knows it will be worth it to wait.

 

“You had _simple_ orders, agent.”

 

_SMACK_

 

“You _knew_ your orders, agent.”

 

_SMACK_

 

“You _disobeyed me_ , agent.”

 

_SMACK_

 

Clint’s ass is turning pink now, but Phil needs to see it red, bright red. He needs Clint squirming, needs him hard.

 

"Yes sir. I'm sorry sir. It won't happen again." That could be a lie. He has no way of guaranteeing it won't happen again, especially considering how hot Phil gets him. It's actually pretty likely this scene will be replayed quite often over the years but he can't say that. That's not part of the game.

 

Phil smacks the other cheek and Clint moans louder, his nails are grinding into the tabletop and he can feel his cock twitch again.

 

“You are a disobedient agent,” Phil smacks a little bit harder, and this time palms himself through his trousers. “If you cannot follow this simplest of orders, how can I ever expect you to ride me right?”

 

"I've done it-ah!-..before sir." Clint murmurs between sharp smacks. He's already half hard again and it all feels so good. "If you'll just give me a chance to prove myself sir, I won't let you down."

 

“You can’t be trusted to follow orders, agent.” Another sharp smack, this time Phil grabs his cheeks and spreads them apart, and he grinds his clothed cock in between the spread flesh.

 

" _Oh god._ " Clint whimpers, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the table top. He can feel the heat radiating off Phil's cock and he wants it inside him so badly. But that's not part of the plan. He'll fuck him eventually but right now Clint needs to prove that he's a good little soldier and can follow whatever orders Phil chooses to give him.  
  
"I can follow orders sir. I lost control. It won't happen again sir."

 

Another smack, and another, another deep _hard_ grind, and Phil is stepping back. “Prove it then. Move aside the dishes and get up on the table. Follow your orders, agent.”

 

Clint moves quickly. The dishes are off the table to a nearby sideboard, leaving the surface clear enough for him to climb onto. He settles down, ass right at the edge of the table, legs spread and heels on the table, and he leans back on one hand, leaving everything open and on display for his appraising husband.

 

Phil sits back down in his chair like he’s going to continue eating dinner, and pushes Clint down hard on his back with a hand to his chest.

 

“Let’s see if you can follow your orders this time, agent.” Phil gives Clint a dark stare before his mouth is already around Clint’s aching, half-hard cock.

 

He’s meticulous, his tongue working over the details of Clint’s cock and his teeth are unforgiving around the ridges. His fingers are already working around the archer’s balls, giving them harsh squeezes and playful strokes. And already that flesh is worked halfway down Phil’s throat, rippling and pulling him in.

 

A loud groan fills the mostly silent air, momentarily masking the dirty wet sounds Phil's mouth is making around Clint's cock. His fingers lace through Phil's hair, urging him farther down without pushing. He feels like his body is on fire and if Phil doesn't hurry up he's going to burst into flames.

 

Phil lets out a soft moan of his own, and he can taste Clint’s come and his sweat. His tongue laves at the underside and his fingers cover what his mouth cannot – Clint is almost seven inches, after all, and there’s only so much Phil can take.

 

And then his mouth is gone from the flesh, which is bobbing upright again, and Phil seals his lips around Clint’s pulsing muscle, pressing his tongue on and in before Clint can so much as take a breath.

 

"Fuck!" Clint yells, eyes going wide. He can feel that hot, wet muscle moving inside him loosening him up and he thinks he's going to die. His hips arc upwards and his head is thrown back, dizziness sweeping over him from whiplash and the impact on the tabletop. He had only felt Phil's tongue inside him a few times before, usually only on special occasions or when he had done something to deserve it, but it had been enough for him to know that too much more and he might become totally addicted. Phil's tongue was strong and sure and the way it moved inside and opened him up sent sharp bolts of pleasure shooting through his body.

 

Phil’s nails are digging crescents into Clint’s hips to hold him down, and his breath his hot across the archer’s balls. He pulls back to nip and suckle at his husband's perineum, drawing a few sobs out of him.

 

His middle finger dives into Clint’s wet, relaxed walls, right up to the cold metal band he wears there – his wedding ring (he wears it on his middle finger out of habit because he and Clint didn’t tell anyone at work that they were married for a very long time.)

 

The feel of the cold metal against his hot skin and the sudden intrusion makes Clint jolt in surprise. The movement changes the angle of the finger and suddenly it's rubbing against that sensitive place inside him, making him see stars. His body is tauter than the string on his bow, every muscle pulled tight as he rocks against that finger, driving it into him again and again.  
  
"Sir I'm-I'm so close...please sir, please..." he begs. He's right on the edge again but he needs to prove that he can take orders and he won't let himself fall until Phil says it's okay.

 

“Come for me, agent.” Phil closes his mouth around Clint’s cock again, and his forefinger is in beside the first, pushing in dangerously deep, and his ring is so cold and so perfect.

 

And that's all Clint needs. His eyes close and he tumbles over the edge into bliss. His hips jolt, pushing forward to drive himself deeper into Phil's mouth and spill into that welcoming throat then back again, impaling himself on those wonderful fingers that are stretching him just right. His vision goes white while he rides out the aftershocks.

 

Phil loves this kind. The silent orgasm. When Clint is so far gone that his mouth is open wide and he’s so lost that he can’t even scream. Tears form at the corners of his eyes, his face is frozen with bliss, and all that escapes is the smallest of whines.

 

He can’t help but smile as he gulps down the archer’s thick load, smaller considering it’s his second orgasm in such a small time frame.

 

Phil doesn’t stop his fingers inside Clint as he pulls back, a little bit of semen white on his lip as he milks the last few drops from his husband’s thrumming cock.

 

"You...oh god you... _shit."_ Clint manages to gasp. He feels heavy and warm, like his bones have all turned to balmy molasses. Hot and thick but not easily directed. His chest is heaving and he feels so blissed out. He would happily fall asleep, right here on the table, but he can still feel Phil's fingers inside him and he knows he still has orders to follow.

 

Phil nuzzles his inner thigh, kissing up to his knee and then down his calf to kiss at his ankle so he can admire those gorgeous pumps in the candlelight. His thumbs rub tenderly at Clint’s hipbones, gently coaxing him back off his high and into full consciousness.

 

“What a good agent,” Phil murmurs, kissing Clint’s lower belly, dipping his tongue into the archer’s navel and lapping up a few droplets of precome he’d missed earlier. “But you aren’t done yet. Show me what you’ve learned in your training.”

 

He was, of course, referring to all the times Phil would have Clint climb on top for a good ride. It was Phil’s favorite position, after all.

 

Clint nods and pushes Phil away so he can slide off the table. He falls gracefully to his knees and with sure, deft movements he flicks open the button on Phil’s pants and yanks the zipper downward. He silently urges Coulson to lift his hips so he can slide the man's pants and underwear down, freeing his straining erection.  
  
For a moment the archer stills, simply admiring his husband's cock. It's long and thick, heavy and red with blood and he can feel the heat it radiates from inches away. He's memorized this column of flesh as he has the rest of Coulson's body but he never tires of it. It's absolutely perfect in every way.  
  
He finishes his silent appraisal and begins to worship the straining length with his mouth. Tongue and lips move over the searing flesh, making sure every inch is slick with his saliva. It's not really necessary considering how well Phil has prepared him but they both enjoy it so Clint sees no reason not to indulge. And Phil’s gentle sighs and his fingers in his hair are both signs that his husband doesn’t really mind the indulgence either.  
  
When he is sure it's been adequately lubed Clint rises and climbs onto Phil's lap, legs on either side of his thighs and one hand holding the chair to brace himself. He reaches back with his free hand and takes hold of Phil's cock. He smiles at his husband and holds him steady and slowly sinks down onto him.  
  
"Ohhh fuck." he swears when the head first breaches him. It feels so good to finally have Coulson inside him after all the waiting. He continues to moan, the sounds broken up by harsh curses in various languages as he sinks lower and lower until he's seated on his husband's lap, every inch buried inside him.

 

Phil’s training comes in handy here, and his toes are curled in his battle-damaged dress shoes to keep from thrusting his hips up. He’s in control of the situation, and _Clint_ is the one who’s going to be driven mad with pleasure. He could control himself.

 

One hand lifted to pet at the back of Clint’s hair, down his neck, pulling goose bumps up over his shoulders and belly. His other hand massages approvingly at the archer’s hip. Only after Clint was still for too long did Phil push his hips upwards ever so slightly, urging him on.

 

“ _Move_ , agent.” He hisses, his hands gripping a little tighter at hip and hair. 

 

"Yes sir." Clint gasps. He lifts himself on shaky legs until there is almost nothing left inside him. Then he lets himself fall, his husband's hot length filling him again in one quick movement and knocking the air from his lungs. He does it again and again, gasping and shivering as that hot flesh stimulates his inner walls.

 

Phil’s hands are strong on Clint’s hips, guiding him up and down, gently coaxing him. He’s not supposed to do any heavy lifting, or strain his leg, so as much as he’d like to force Clint this way and that, as much as he’d like to thrust his hips up to meet him, he knows he’ll seriously regret it later.

 

He’s at Clint’s mercy, the bastard. Not that he’ll let him know that.

 

He lifts the hand of his good arm up and gives Clint’s already raw backside a good, hard smack.

 

Clint jerks forward at the impact and now Phil's cock is entering him at a new angle, once again hitting that spot that makes him sees stars. He stops impaling himself on his lover and instead begins moving his hips in small slow circles, grinding the head of Phil's dick against his sweet spot. Lightning is racing through his body with every movement and he needs to do something, to find an outlet for it, so he latches onto his husband's mouth, all lips and tongue and teeth.

 

Phil loves it when Clint stops breathing at times like this. The kiss is a little bit more pain than pleasure, and Phil thinks he can taste blood, but the pulsating in his lap is much too strong for him to care right now.

 

His fingers are spread across Clint’s burning ass cheeks, and he pulls them apart and kneads them back together, the muscle firm and hot beneath his palms. He can hear Clint hissing with blissful pain as his raw flesh is pushed and pulled around like bread dough, and he decides to dash his injured leg for _just one moment_. His hips jolt upwards and his thighs slap against Clint’s ass nice and loud. The chair creaks under the force of his thrust, and Clint _chokes_ on his gasp he sucks it in so fast.

 

Pain streaks through Phil’s leg, but it’s so worth it because Clint is _sobbing_.

Clint ceases his grinding and starts lifting himself and falling back onto Phil's cock like before, only now he's moving faster. He's so desperate for the friction and the feel of Coulson inside him that he's practically bouncing up and down on his lap, each downward movement rewarding him with a sudden burst of blissful sensation that shoots through his very core.

 

Phil’s holding his hips hard enough to bruise and he’s helping him move. Guiding him quickly, up the shaft and down again, their skin’s loud when it smacks together. His leg is burning where it was injured, but the hot stabbing sensation blurs together into the hot pleasure snaking through his belly.

 

Feeling mischievous, he pulls Clint up a little bit too far, and he hisses as he feels his husband’s muscle clench desperately at his cock to keep it inside, but the head slips out nonetheless. Phil’s cock suddenly feels cold, and he keeps Clint kneeling upright with his palms beneath his armpits. Clint’s legs are trembling, and his expression is desperate.

 

"Sir," Clint's voice is a frantic, breathless whine. He struggles in Phil's grip, trying urgently to break free. He feels so empty and cold without Phil inside him despite the feverish sweat that moistens his skin. He loves and hates it when Phil plays these games. It's torture but Phil always makes it worth it in the end.

 

Still he can't help begging because he needs it. It's like a drug and he needs just a little more to reach that perfect high that he never wants to come down from.

 

“ _What_ , agent?” Phil hisses, licking his lips and letting his eyes drift downward as Clint gives a needy little wiggle of his hips. “Do you have a request to make of your superior officer?”

 

His body is thrumming at this point, and he doesn’t care if he’s sore or if he’s old or balding or injured, he doesn’t care because he is a _God_.

 

"I need it sir. Give it to me, please!" He's almost sobbing he's so desperate. It's humiliating and pathetic and but he's so hot right now that he doesn't care. He hates Phil, the sadistic bastard, and loves him at the same time. It's the sweetest kind of torture he can imagine and only Phil can do this to him. Only those hands and that cock and his calm, dominating voice that sends shivers down Clint's spine can reduce him to this and he loathes and revels in it.

 

Phil lowers Clint slowly on trembling legs, guides himself with his hand, and then he’s back in that body. And oh he wishes he could thrust, but the dull pain in his leg reminds him he can’t and he releases Clint to do as he pleases.

 

Clint wastes no time on readjusting after the sudden intrusion. He immediately returns to his previous pace, moving fast and hard, driving Phil's cock deep inside him. His mind is a haze with only the thought of bringing them both to completion left. He's already so close to the edge that he knows that any minute now it'll be over for him.

 

“Yes, agent, good, yes, keep going,” Phil is chanting slow and deep and he can’t help but rock a little bit, the pain throbbing in his leg mingling into the pleasure coursing up his cock. Clint’s hips are so erratic that he slips out once or twice more, and Clint howls every time before guiding him quickly back inside to keep up his pace.

 

Clint is crying with every drive down of his hips, and his breathy sobs are combined with the chorus of squeaks the chair is giving out beneath them, and Phil’s own harsh moans.

 

He’s close, and yes he knows Clint is so very close too, close _again_ and he’s going to come so hard he might even pass out. How smug Phil would feel at that point, indeed.

 

"Phil, sir," Clint corrects quickly. He can't mess up now, can’t deal with another punishment delaying what he needs right now. He's so tightly wound he knows all he needs is one little thing to set him off and only Phil can give that to him.  
  
"Touch me, sir," he begs because he knows that once he does it'll all be over.

 

Phil doesn’t hesitate, he’s put Clint through enough torture for one game. He wraps his hand full around Clint’s cock and gives one hard tug, and that’s it. Clint is screaming his third orgasm of the night, and riding Phil so hard that he’s afraid the archer’s going to pull his cock right off his body.

 

His thrusts grow weaker and Phil’s _so close_ but Clint’s legs are tired and his hips are sore, “Down on your knees,” he commands and Clint’s tired body slips down to the ground. Phil grasps his hair hard, tugs him into position, and only a few seconds later he’s coming over Clint’s face. It’s thick and heavy across his cheeks and lips, staining his eyelashes and running down his chin, and Clint is shuddering violently.

 

Clint's tongue flicks out from between his lips, licking whatever he can reach into his mouth where he savors the taste of his husband. This is his favorite part, when Phil's takes possession of him and marks him as his own. It lets him relax and simply bask in that firm domination that only Phil is allowed. He knows he's done his job well when it ends like this.  
  
With a contented sigh he rests his head on Phil's lap and reaches for his hand.  
  
"I fucking love you, you know that?"

 

Phil twines his fingers into Clint’s, not even caring that he’s getting come all over his trousers. They’re already destroyed from the fire fight before – another suit to be thrown out, damn it all.

 

“I know, baby,” he murmured, running his hand over Clint’s hair. He lifts his head gently and uses his handkerchief to wipe the cooling semen from his husband’s face like a parent would to their sticky child. “Now… we didn’t actually finish eating dinner. I’d like to get a change of clothes, you can put on some pants if you like, and I need to get something to kill the pain in my leg.”

 

He pushes up out of his chair with a smile, suddenly back in docile-Phil mode. It’s a wonder how he can switch in and out so quickly and seamlessly.

 

With a grin Clint kicks off his heels (there's no way he'll be able to stay upright in them with his legs shaking this bad) and scurries into the bedroom for a pair of sweatpants. Phil is there before him, already pulling off his soiled suit.  
  
"Go take a shower." Clint orders, steering him towards the bathroom. "I'll have the food warmed and your painkillers ready when you're done."

 

Phil turns his head to kiss the side of Clint’s nose as he’s being pushed forcibly into the bathroom. “Alright, I’m going,” he murmurs, stepping away from his husband’s pushing on his back. He gives him a wink as he closes the door behind him, already anticipating the way the hot water will feel on his sore, sticky body.

 

"Stubborn old man." Clint calls fondly. He waits a minute, listening to be sure Phil's bad leg won't give out and he won't fall. Satisfied that everything is fine he smiles and returns to the kitchen. He turns on some music to accompany him while he works and the sounds mingle with the soft splash of water coming from their bathroom. It's nice and calm and so perfectly domestic and for a moment Clint can forget who they really are. Things like SHIELD and all the death and destruction that goes along with their everyday lives have no place here. He knows that tomorrow they'll have to go back and that there will always be another mission and another job to do but at the end of the day this will all still be here, waiting for them.  
  
And that's pretty much perfect.

 

 


End file.
